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“What did he say?” Rory pressed after a drawn out silence, a noticeable tremor in his voice. Mikhail couldn’t blame him for that. Alexi wasn’t known for his compassion. Whatever the story, the outcome would be the same. They had made his Bratva look weak. He would make up his own mind about who was to blame and how to deal with them.
Both their heads were as likely as not for the noose.
“The Pakhan-”
“Your Pakhan sent me.”
All eyes in the room looked up to see a body standing just inside the office. No one had heard him enter.
He was not a tall man, nor especially large, but he was broad across the shoulders and had a powerful frame that filled out his three-piece suit so perfectly it could only be tailored. A man of means then, but his face was hard and craggy with none of the softness of someone born to money. So he’d made his money working with his hands.
The sight of him sent a sudden shiver of fear through Mikhail. There was something about the way the man stood. Confident, completely at ease but also alert, ready to spring at the slightest provocation, and something else. Something in the way his intense, baleful blue eyes stared out from their sunken sockets that suggested he was capable of terrible things. It was the aura of a predator, a trained killer. And he immediately felt the noose tightening around his neck. This was not a man to fuck with.
Rory was not so cautious and lurched up from his seat, full of fire and bravado in front of this man. “Who the fuck are you?”
The man ignored the question. Instead, he advanced, crossing the office and up the short flight of steps to Mikhail’s suite. His predatory eyes fixed on the Avtoritet seated behind his desk. “I understand you have a problem, Brigadier.”
His accent was Chechen.
Shit.
“Yes,” Mikhail nodded, and thought of the Makarov pistol in the desk drawer. Would he have time to go for it if things went bad? With a distraction, maybe. Unfortunately, the men under his command were not so obliging. Perhaps the whipping the previous day had taught them the value of caution because, as the Chechen approached, they stepped back, fanning out to encircle, or just watch.
All except Rory, who stepped directly in his path. “Woah, where’re you going?” he barked, putting a hand on his shoulder to halt the Chechen in his tracks. “I asked just who the fuck you are? Don’t make me ask you again.”
For a long moment, the man said nothing. Then he dragged his eyes away from Mikhail to the hand on his shoulder, then up at Rory. “Nemesis,” he said, his tone even and somehow more threatening than if he had bellowed it in a war cry. “You know what that word means, don’t you, boy? A righteous infliction of retribution manifested by an appropriate agent.” The threat was plain as the Chechen held Rory’s gaze. Mikhail saw his chance and was just about to move for the desk drawer when Rory dropped his hand and stepped back.
The Chechen didn’t acknowledge the victory. Instead, he just turned back to Mikhail and calmly took the seat Rory had vacated, as tranquil as if nothing had happened. Steepling his fingers, he said, “You need to keep a tighter leash on your dogs, Brigadier, before they get put down. Now, what’s this problem of yours?”
The Beached Whale was as busy as I had ever seen it. There were two guys at the bar. A man and woman sitting at a table by the window, and another three guys sitting around a booth talking amongst themselves. No one looked up as I walked in and, blessedly, there wasn’t a single Russian voice in the place.
Mike was back behind the bar, but this time, he refused to acknowledge me as I walked in. He just kept his head down as he poured the next round. Probably the best thing, really. I hadn’t forgotten what he’d said yesterday about what had happened. I’d make a point of having a little talk with him later, but for now, I just wanted my burger.
“Oh no, here comes trouble,” a familiar voice called as Debra stepped into view. However, there was no notepad or tray with a burger and chips in sight. That wasn’t good. Nor did she call me Sugar Pie. That definitely wasn’t good news.
“Hey Debra,” I said, giving her my best winning smile as I sat down at my customary table, trying to play it cool. I had to give the cleaners credit, two fights in one day and it still looked just like it had before the kickoff.
“Now don’t you give me any of that sexy English hotness, mister charming,” she growled, coming to stand over me with her hands on her hips. “Ya know, you caused a lot of trouble around here. That poor girl lost her job over that fight.” Though her anger seemed to be directed at me, as she said that, I could have sworn she shot the barman a dirty sideways glance. Guess she’d heard about him telling tales, too. Only, she shouldn’t give him both barrels, so instead I was the one she was going to let out all her frustrations on. Lucky me.
“Yeah, I heard,” I said, trying to both look ashamed and play innocent as the group at the other table started glancing our way. No point giving the regulars any more to gossip about. “So, I popped by last night to have a little chat with the boss, straighten it all out. She should be all good and in for her next shift.”
“Well, you might have straightened it out with Mr Gates, but as I’m covering that shift, guess you didn’t square it with her,” She retorted in a matter-of-fact fashion, like she was telling her kids the hard truths of life. “She came in this morning, told him to forget it, then walked right back out again.”
“Bloody hell!” I sighed, more exasperated than pissed off. Bloody women, never satisfied. Do them a favour and it’s still not good enough. “Alright, when is he next in? I’ll have another word. Find out just what’s going on.”
“You can talk to him right now. He’s out back. I’ll go get him if you-hey!” I don’t wait for her to finish before I’m up out of my chair. All eyes spun in my direction, but now I didn’t care and just stormed across the bar, past the kitchen window, through the doors to the games room and down a side passage marked staff only. Debra was hot on my heels. “Hey, you can’t go back here.”
She sounded flustered, no longer angry, probably more than a little nervous. “I’ll only be a minute.”
“You can’t!” She gasped, panting a bit with the strain of keeping up with my longer strides. “Please, don’t make me call Brian, our fry cook. You remember him, right?”
Yeah, I remembered him alright, and his knife, but it was too late. Spotting the door with the ‘Manager’ legend stamped across a brass plaque, I walked up and shouldered through, conveniently forgetting to knock. “Ned!”
Sat behind an unnecessarily large desk piled high with papers and books, Ned Gates looked no more impressive than he had on his back. His head snapped up at the interruption before his eyes went as wide as saucers. That must have hurt. The bruising around his face had matured into an ugly purple hue. No wonder he’d decided to do the accounts. One look at that face would convert even the most ardent alcoholic to sobriety.
Before either of us could say anything, Debra stepped around me, blocking my way, all tears and apologies, probably terrified she was about to get the boot too. “I’m sorry, Mr Ned, he wouldn’t listen.”
Poor love, she really didn’t need this.
